


Something About Playing the Violin

by dance_across



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Online Dating, POV John Watson, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:18:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sets up an online dating profile for Sherlock. Well... he tries to, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something About Playing the Violin

“Have a good time on your date,” says Sherlock.

Somehow, John manages not to roll his eyes. The door is only four paces away. He can still make his escape without taking Sherlock’s bait.

But there’s that gleam in his eyes, and there’s the pointed, clipped way he just said the word _date_ , and John finds that he can’t help himself. He sighs. “I didn’t say anything about a date. Go on. I know you’re dying to tell me how you knew.”

“I’d hardly say _dying_ ,” says Sherlock. But he sets his book aside, steeples his fingers, and gives John a casual once-over. “Hair. Shoes. Jacket. Cologne. And it was written in your diary. Lisa. Which one is Lisa?”

This time, John does roll his eyes. Moving toward the door, he says, “A new one. Don’t wait up.”

“I never do,” says Sherlock placidly. Then, just as John’s opening the door, inches away from escape, he adds, “I never need to. You’re always home at a perfectly respectable hour, complaining about all the reasons the latest one doesn’t meet your needs.”

This rankles a little more than John thought it would. “At least I _try_ to meet my, ah, god-almighty-never-mind I refuse to have this conversation with you right now.”

“What conversation?” asks Sherlock innocently, though his pale eyes are sparkling with mischief. “I was making an observation.”

“Well, don’t,” says John. “Go back to reading your…” He trails off, peering at the spine of the book Sherlock set down a moment ago. “What is that, the Bible?”

“King James,” affirms Sherlock. “I’m memorizing it.”

“Why would you… never mind, never mind, never mind.”

“Because people cite the Bible as inspiration for all sorts of interesting crimes,” says Sherlock. “And I’ve grown tired of having to look up the passages they reference. This’ll save time.”

Trust Sherlock Holmes to file “Memorize Entire Bible” under “Ways to Save Time.”

John sighs. “Well, you have fun with that.”

“Hardly,” says Sherlock with a derisive laugh. “Do you think I’d be doing this if I had something better to do? God. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so bored.”

John bites back a smile at Sherlock’s petulant tone. Maybe it’s the fact of his being older than his flatmate, but somehow the whinier side of Sherlock’s nature always manages to bring out something paternal in John.

Well… maybe not paternal.

Something protective, anyway.

“Surely you can think of something more interesting to do, then,” says John. “Man like you, brain like yours? Thinking’s what you do best. So think of something.”

Now it’s John baiting Sherlock—and if the look on Sherlock’s face is anything to go by, he’s enjoying it immensely.

“Well, what do _you_ suggest I do?” asks Sherlock, flinging his dressing gown dramatically aside as he stands up.

“Dunno. Something fun?”

“But nothing fun is happening! We haven’t had a case in days.”

“We had two cases only yesterday—”

“—both of which I solved in under seven minutes. They don’t count.”

“Then make your own fun,” says John, trying for a winning smile.

But Sherlock doesn’t smile back. “You know how I define ‘fun,’ John. Solving murders. Piecing clues together, clues that lead into the darkest depths of the human mind, figuring out the things that make people tick.” He lands hard on the K sound, draping himself over the sofa, eyes on John the whole time. “When it comes to people like me, John… Well. Making our own fun, as you so eloquently put it, is the thing that creates people like Jim Moriarty. I’m better off being bored.”

“Ah, I see,” says John. “You’re better off being bored, because otherwise you run the risk of endangering the human race, the planet Earth, and possibly the entire universe?”

Sherlock purses his lips, giving John a very specific sort of look.

“Or,” John says, raising an index finger like the idea’s only just occurred to him, “you could put your giant ego aside for a moment, and expand your idea of fun.”

“Expand it to include what, exactly?”

John shrugs. “Going out? Having a pint?” He hesitates, knowing what he's going to say next will probably get him in trouble. “Dating?”

Sherlock’s mouth does that quirky little I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that-out-loud thing, and John wills himself not to burst out laughing.

“Dating,” says Sherlock at last. John has never heard so much derision squeezed into two syllables.

“Dating,” says John, moving toward the couch where his friend sits. Lounges, rather. It’s a rare feeling, looking _down_ at Sherlock Holmes. John makes up his mind to savor it for as long as he can.

“What exactly,” says Sherlock, stuffing a pillow under his head and looking benignly up at John, “is the point of dating?”

“The point is obvious,” says John. Sherlock smiles, as if to encourage him to go on. “It’s… it’s… well, it’s about relationships, isn’t it? Finding the person you’re supposed to be with.”

“And the point of that is to find someone to have sex with,” says Sherlock. “And the point of _that_ is procreation. And the point of _that_ is to keep the human race from becoming extinct. Dating for the survival of the species, John. In case you haven’t noticed, the world is overpopulated enough without my contributing to it. There’s no need for me to date.”

“I didn’t mean—” John cuts himself off, rubbing at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “It’s not about. Sherlock, honestly, no wonder you’ve never… Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything. Go back to memorizing the Bible. I’ve got to go meet this Lisa person.”

John heads toward the door yet again, only to be stopped—yet again—by Sherlock’s voice. He sounds genuinely curious this time as he says, “No wonder I’ve never what?”

John turns back toward him, eyebrows raised again. His anger has faded just enough to render the entire topic completely embarrassing. He licks his lips. “You know.”

“I do?”

It really seems like he doesn’t.

“Er,” says John. “What Mycroft said. And Irene, and also Moriarty, I suppose, if you count that sort of…”

A smile widens Sherlock’s mouth into a shape that’s almost evil. “Ah-ha. Have I ever had sexual intercourse, you mean.”

John spends an entire four seconds willing every red blood cell in his body not to rise to his face. “Yes,” he says stoically. “That is what I mean.”

They stare at each other for what seems, to John, like a truly absurd amount of time.

Finally, he takes the bait. “Well? Have you?”

“It depends on how you define it,” says Sherlock, maddeningly calm. “So go on, then, Dr. Watson. Give me your definition, and I shall give you my answer.”

“For god’s sake, I’m not defining—you know perfectly well—”

But John stops when he sees that Sherlock has started laughing. Laughing at _him_.

John waits for him to stop. Stares him down. Finally, Sherlock twists a bit on the couch, his whole silk-clad body facing John.

“I haven’t,” he says, eyes still glittering. “Not interested. Too many endorphins. They cloud the mind. Dampen one’s ability to reason.”

John blinks. He’s always suspected his friend was somewhat stunted in the area of personal relationships, but hearing him say it out loud, so bluntly, surprises him more than he thought it would.

Just like that, for reasons John can’t even begin to fathom, that sense of protectiveness is back. He goes over to the chair, the one Sherlock was sitting in just a moment ago. Turns it to face the couch. Sits down.

But before he can speak, Sherlock groans. “Oh, don’t give me that look.”

John takes a moment to self-assess. Finds nothing untoward. “What look?”

“The Mycroft look,” says Sherlock, pressing a tragic hand across his eyes. “The one that implies I’ll never truly be able to understand how human beings think unless I have intercourse.”

John tries to imagine Mycroft saying such a thing, and finds himself oddly disgusted by the idea. He puts up a wall between himself and the image, and focuses on Sherlock. “Are you saying you _do_ understand how people think?”

“For the most part, yes,” says Sherlock, lowering his fingers just enough to peer one-eyed at John. “People are surprisingly predictable, John. They follow the same patterns of behavior again and again, conditioned by a reward system like lab rats in a maze. Take you, for example. You think that if you put on the exact right amount of cologne, wear that specific shirt, and comb your hair just so, this woman you’re meeting tonight will find you attractive—possibly attractive enough to warrant a second date, a romantic relationship, sex, et cetera. You’ve dressed the same way for every first date you’ve been on since we first met, and every first date, with one notable exception that was utterly beyond your control, has led to a second date, which brings you one step closer to sexual gratification, and therefore you’ve deemed your appearance—this particular version of your appearance—a success. Effort and reward. You press the right lever, you get a food pellet. So, yes, John, I understand how people think.”

John squints at him. “In other words, stop bothering you, it’s none of my business.”

“Also that,” says Sherlock. “Go on. You’ll be late to meet _Lisa_.”

John considers this. Considers getting up and walking out the door without exchanging another word with Sherlock. Considers it, and instead pulls out his phone and sends a quick text that begins with _Lisa, I’m so sorry_. Because John has just realized that he doesn’t give two fucks about this friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend he’s supposed to meet tonight.

He has something far more entertaining in mind.

“Stay where you are,” he says, and dashes upstairs to retrieve his laptop from where he left it on the bed. When he sits down again and boots it up, Sherlock eyes him with unmitigated suspicion. “Hold on,” murmurs John, typing in a web address. “There. Now. First thing’s first. A username. Pick one.”

Sherlock looks at John. Then at the laptop. It takes him slightly longer than usual to put two and two together—a full second instead of half, if that—but then he says, “No.”

“Pick one,” says John, “or I’ll do it for you.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk into a not-quite-smile. “Go on, then.”

John thinks for a moment. “How about _Cheekbones221B_?”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed, looking utterly pained.

“ _Crime Solver. Clued In To You_. You could do that one with a number two instead of the word to. S’what all the kids do.” John laughs softly to himself as he types in the last one and tries to imagine Sherlock ever, in any version of this universe, voluntarily using such a name. “Something about playing the violin, maybe? Women love musicians. Or men. If that’s what you’re after.”

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock says, “What about _JohnWatsonIsAGiantDickhead_?”

“John… Watson… has… a… giant… dick,” says John, pretending to type. “Might be too many characters. Try again?” There’s no reply. “Try again, or I’ll do the cheekbones one.”

“God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters into the pillow. But he doesn’t give John a username.

John types in _Cheekbones221B_. The website accepts it.

“Now let’s talk photo, shall we?”

-

Half an hour later, Sherlock’s head is actually _under_ the pillow, and John is still typing, despite his friend’s refusal to contribute in any meaningful way to the dating profile. Between uploading photos (he does not use the one with the hat, as it might draw the wrong sort of attention; he does use one where Sherlock is smiling, despite his instincts warning him that Sherlock has one of the creepiest smiles he’s ever seen in his life) and trying to come up with interesting ways of describing Sherlock’s typical Friday night (emphasis on the violin-playing; a brief glossing-over of lab experiments conducted in the kitchen; a diplomatic omission of the various body parts Sherlock regularly keeps in the freezer), John feels like he has a brand-new definition of making his own fun.

A definition that involves driving Sherlock Holmes into hiding under a pillow.

“Last profile question, before we get into the multiple choice ones,” says John, tabbing the cursor into a new field. “What is the most private thing you’re willing to admit?”

“It doesn’t really ask that,” says Sherlock. “You’re making it up.”

“I’m not,” says John. “Come and look.”

Sherlock seems to consider this for a moment. Then: “No.”

“Same rule as every other time, then,” says John. “Answer the question, or I’ll answer it for you. What’s the most private thing you’re willing to admit on this dating website?”

“John. Given my responses to your previous ten questions—eleven, if you count the username—what do you think are the odds that I’ll provide you with an answer to this one?”

“A man must live in hope,” says John.

Sherlock snorts.

“Seriously, though, Sherlock—”

That is when Sherlock finally emerges from beneath the pillow, hair even more mussed than usual, glaring at John. “Last question, you said.”

Sherlock’s gaze has lost nearly all its exasperated mirth, and John falters in the suddenly-changed atmosphere of the room. He wonders if the joke has stopped being funny. And why. He’s usually so good at navigating Sherlock’s boundaries—at not pushing further than Sherlock can deal with.

“Y-yes,” he replies.

“And then you’ll post this thing.” Sherlock’s sitting up by now, long legs crossed at the knee. “Why?”

“Thought it’d be… well.” John clears his throat. “Funny, a bit? And also maybe you’d go on a date, one date maybe, and then maybe you’d get a better idea of what the point really is. From my point of view, I mean,” John adds hastily, as Sherlock’s pale eyes begin to narrow. “I’m not trying to change your mind. It’s just—you asked what the point was. It’s hard to explain, so I thought maybe it’d be a bit, sort of, enlightening? If you could experience it for yourself?”

“It won’t be the same, and it won’t enlighten me,” says Sherlock flatly. “Experience is an individual thing. My having dinner with some woman won’t give me insight into your life.”

“Is it insight you want, then?” says John. “When you asked what the point was, I mean? Because I thought you meant sort of… generally… like what’s the point for people in general, not me specifically….”

Sherlock stares at him. “Why would I care about people in general? _Obviously_ I was asking about you specifically.”

John looks down at the unfinished dating profile of Cheekbones221B, and finds that it isn’t as funny as it was thirty seconds ago. None of it is. Delicately, John closes the laptop. Rests his hands on the lid. Thinks about the question.

Sherlock continues to stare, but John knows he’s allowed all the thinking time he needs.

Finally, John says, “I think… for me, at least… it’s about finding a companion. Someone you can go through the rest of your life with, knowing they’ll always be there for you, no matter what.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side—a gesture that usually means he’s got a new angle on something. John allows himself a little smile; that gesture always, somehow, feels like a reward.

“That,” says Sherlock after a moment, “sounds exactly like how you’ve described the benefits of friendship. And you’ve got friends already, haven’t you? Well, you’ve got me, at least. I can’t speak to the others.”

John smiles as that protective feeling surges in his chest again. He leans forward, elbows balanced on his knees. “Yes, that’s friends. But dating is for friends that you also want to… you know.”

“Have sex with,” says Sherlock.

“Well. Yes. And not even that, all the time. Sometimes it’s just about closeness, or kissing, or knowing you’ve got someone to come home to, or—”

“Kissing,” says Sherlock.

“Yes,” says John, and frowns as a new thought occurs to him. “You have… you’ve at least _kissed_ before, haven’t you?”

Sherlock smirks. Then he uncrosses his legs, leans forward, and takes John Watson’s face between his two long, thin hands.

John knows what’s about to happen approximately two seconds before it actually happens. That’s two seconds in which John can pull away if he wants to, two seconds in which John can defuse the situation by asking Sherlock if he’s serious and then laughing it off when he says no. Two seconds in which John can say, for the umpteenth time, that he isn’t gay.

Two seconds.

John does not move, and John does not speak.

And then, in the space between one breath and the next, Sherlock is kissing him.

The lips pressed against John’s are so surprisingly gentle, so surprisingly soft, that John momentarily forgets to notice the hint of stubble on the skin surrounding them. He forgets that he prefers women to men, and he forgets that there are rules about dating and marriage and being not-gay, and he forgets that this is the self-proclaimed sociopath who leaves bowls of human body parts lying around the flat.

He forgets everything except the feeling of surprisingly gentle, surprisingly soft lips against his, parting slightly, moving with a slow rhythm that falls naturally into sync with his own. And he finds himself kissing Sherlock back.

Somehow his hand finds its way to the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers threading through his hair. Sherlock, feeling it, makes the smallest of noises.

That noise is what finally startles John back to reality. Back to the sheer absurdity of what is happening between them.

He pulls away, touching two fingers to his lips. Sherlock sits back, looking immeasurably smug as his eyes drift down to the closed laptop still resting on John’s thighs.

“There,” says Sherlock, “is your evidence. Now you tell me: had I ever kissed anyone before?”

John squints. The kiss was so simple. A thing that existed only in service of itself, completely divorced from the outside world. So of course Sherlock has to cock it up by turning it into just another deduction.

Of course he does.

“I,” John begins, and finds that his voice doesn’t work quite the way he wants it to.

“I have,” says Sherlock, before John can come up with a proper reply. “On three separate occasions, with three separate people. This makes four. Now. Did you enjoy that?”

Yes, he did. But no, he didn’t.

But yes.

He did.

“Did _you_?” says John evasively.

“That’s just it,” says Sherlock, his tone softening the words almost into a sigh. “Three kisses with three people—four, now—and I’m still no closer to discovering what the point is.”

“The point?” says John faintly.

“Of kissing.”

Something curdles in John’s gut—a feeling of having been used, of being part of an experiment, of being one step behind Sherlock’s intentions, as always. He’s trying to figure out a way to say so, when Sherlock speaks up again:

“Yes, though. I did.”

“Oh,” says John, feeling his muscles loosen again. Then he says again, more quietly this time, “Oh.”

“I just can’t figure out _why_.”

John, finally, allows himself to smile. “Maybe the enjoyment _is_ the why. The point, I mean”

Sherlock pauses. Then, after a moment, he says, “That’s worth some consideration, isn’t it.” Then he smiles in that almost-creepy too-big-for-his-face way that John usually finds charming, despite himself. “Well!” he says, standing up. “I’m off to bed.”

“It’s only seven-thirty,” John says.

“And I’ve been awake for thirty-nine hours and twenty-four minutes,” says Sherlock. He stops and thinks. “Twenty-five. So, yes. Bed. I do hope you remembered to tell your date that you were running late.”

“Well, I…” But Sherlock’s already gone, the door already shut behind him, by the time John says, “canceled on her.” He looks around the room. The empty room, in which Sherlock has just left him, after having kissed him. “Soooo that’s that, then. Right. So. Yes.”

He stands up, trying to feel as though he’s moving deliberately, even though all he can think is, _Kiss. Kiss. Kiss._

He enjoyed it. He did, because it was a good kiss, yet he didn’t, because that wasn’t who John Watson was, but he did because… well, because he did. What does that mean about him? Is he, despite all his protests, gay? Or at least bisexual?

Does it matter?

Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s just as he said to Sherlock. The only point is enjoyment. And if enjoyment has been had, then it doesn’t have to be anything more than that.

_For now_ , says a sneaky little voice at the back of his head.

“Shut up,” John says to the voice. He sits back down in Sherlock’s chair, and he opens the laptop again. The unfinished profile for Cheekbones221B is still on the screen. John looks at it for a moment, and then he begins to type:

_The most private thing I’m willing to admit: Once, my best friend created an online dating profile for me, and I got so angry with him that I snogged him._

Then John finds the little drop-down menu from earlier, the one where he selected ‘Straight’ after having failed to coax a more accurate answer out of his friend. He changes the answer to ‘Bisexual.’

There’s a button at the bottom. It isn’t big and red, as John feels it ought to be, but clicking it makes the difference between an unpublished profile and a published one. John hovers the cursor over it.

He almost clicks.

And then he doesn’t, because he can’t decide whether he still wants Sherlock to have an online dating profile, even as a joke.

He finds himself closing the laptop. Maybe he’ll decide tomorrow.


End file.
